


Stormy weather (just can't get my poor self together)

by wordswehavesaid



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Astraphobia, Barry Helps, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Oliver's got it, Protective Oliver, Set anytime before "Nanda Parbat" with minor references to "Rogue Time", bit overprotective actually, with some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswehavesaid/pseuds/wordswehavesaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Barry and Oliver start seeing each other, Oliver develops this little habit.</p><p>He checks the weather. Not Starling’s, but Central’s. Obsessively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stormy weather (just can't get my poor self together)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been kind of rainy the past few nights. And I just kind of got to thinking about things, and recalling that scene in the pilot of Arrow during the storm, and then how Barry and Oliver's journeys as heroes both started with storms, and then how nobody ever helps Oliver deal with his PTSD except Barry anyway so why the heck not?  
> Astraphobia is a fear of thunderstorms, lightning, etc. Title comes from the song "Stormy Weather".  
> Hope you all enjoy!

Ever since that night on the _Queen’s Gambit_ that changed the course of his life forever, Oliver’s hated thunderstorms. On the high seas they meant destruction, Sara sucked into the dark waters screaming his name for that first time, cold, cold water surrounding him trying to pull him under. On the island they meant a pressing need to find shelter, a knowledge that any game would be going to ground, near impossible to find and catch, making for long days and nights of slow starvation.

When he first returned to Starling, the nights with thunderstorms were the ones he struggled the most to cope, had the most trouble sleeping through. He’d curl in on himself in a ball on the floor, his mind going back to the cold, the soaked to his skin and into his bones damp, and he’d be lost. It got better, slowly, with time.

And then the long-heralded particle accelerator went online in the middle of a thunderstorm—what the _hell_ were they thinking—malfunctioned, and struck Barry Allen with a bolt of lightning straight to the chest. Minutes after Felicity just got off the phone with him. While Oliver was putting on a mask, asking how he looked with Barry’s handmade gift proudly displayed on his face.

But it’s not until after Barry’s woken up from his coma and they’ve reached a deeper understanding and connection between them, as vigilantes, as friends, as _men_ seeking something thus far unattainable in anyone else—seeing each other, and for more than to soothe the ache from not having the ones they thought they wanted—that he develops this little habit.

He checks the weather. Not Starling’s, but Central’s. Obsessively.

At least, that’s what Dig calls it when he notices Oliver’s got the app for his phone with Barry’s zip code plugged in and not his own. Oliver just scowls, locks his phone, and says he was thinking of paying the younger man a visit, wanted to pick a nice day.

Which of course Dig responds with, “Yeah, well you wouldn’t need to be checking tonight’s hourly forecast to do that.” Dig has a response for everything.

But can anyone really blame Oliver, when he’s had conversations with Barry over the phone where the other says things like, “No metahumans today and I did a patrol on my last break. Think I’m just going to head home early tonight. It’s supposed to storm and I should maybe be out of my lab for that, you know?”

And then he _laughs_. Like it’s a _joke_. Oliver sure as hell isn’t laughing.

In fact, he starts sending him texts or calling or leaving voicemails asking if he’s seen the latest forecast. Then he puts the app on Barry’s phone with text alerts of severe weather warnings the next time the younger man untangles himself from his arms and leaves the device behind to go make probably the twentieth bowl of popcorn during their latest marathon of something-Oliver-needs-to-catch-up-on.

(Not surprisingly, he’d never read the books before the island, but the trio of magic kids running around on the screen bring Team Flash fondly to mind. He can’t decide who Wells would be. He can’t decide who Wells _is_.)

And once, when Barry receives his call about possible scattered thundershowers, the younger man takes a wild guess in clear bemusement, “This isn’t about Weather Wizard, is it? Cause he’s been in the pipeline for a while.”

“No,” is all Oliver can manage. Partly because he knows to tell the truth will sound weird and silly and _damaged_. Partly because, good Lord, there is a man who can literally bring a storm down on Barry’s head if so pleases. Remain calm.

Sometimes, Oliver can be remarkably bad at remaining calm. Barry’s supposed to be coming in for the weekend, he’s taken off his day job specifically so he’s not on call, Caitlin and Cisco have promised not to phone in unless of an absolute emergency, Oliver’s giving the bad guys here a rare break from the Arrow for a couple nights, Thea’s staying in Roy’s spare room, they’ve been planning this for almost two weeks—but the forecast changes. Severe thunderstorms in Starling predicted for that night and well into the morning.

He calls Barry. “Hey, I don’t know if you’ve seen, but it’s looking pretty bad up here—”

“You guys need help? I can head over early,” the younger man misunderstands, coming to the opposite conclusion of what he wants.

So it’s a far sharper, more panicked, “No!” than he would like that leaves his mouth. “I meant you’ll be running right into clouds and rain. That’s not great conditions for you, right?”

“Oliver,” is groaned at him in exasperation.

“So I’m just saying maybe we should try this whole thing another weekend,” he continues on valiantly, presenting the—to his mind—reasonable alternative for what it is, even knowing it certainly won’t be popular. But there’s a significant lack of protest on the other end, so he asks, “Barry?”

There’s a sudden sharp rapping at the door of the loft. Oliver goes to answer it. Shock and irritation war for a place on his face, not the best way to greet a significant other. “Barry!”

The Central City man is standing in the hall with windswept hair, slightly smoking shoes, and a duffle bag hanging from one shoulder. He’s also looking decidedly unimpressed.

“What, you thought a few raindrops were going to stop me coming to see you?” The younger man slips past him into the loft with only the briefest peck on the cheek, dumping his bag by the couch and turning with his arms spread to offer a good look and a cocky grin. “They dried off so fast I barely even noticed them.”

Oliver grits his teeth, shuts the door. Frustrated as he may be with the other man, he sure isn’t going to send him right back out there. The first rumbles of thunder underlies his reply of, “That’s not the point.”

The grin falls from Barry’s face and he’s fed up. “Then what _is_ the point, Oliver? You want to finally explain it to me? Why my phone gets blown up with notifications every time the air pressure drops? Why half your calls anymore are basically to tell me not to forget my umbrella?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, bows his head. God, he knew it was stupid, ridiculous, but to hear it spelled out like that…

There’s a flutter of a breeze and he knows Barry is now right in front of him without looking, can practically sense him there as well as the lashing of the rain against the windows. “Hey,” it’s soft and a little uncertain. “Hey, Oliver.” A hand is tentatively reached out, fingers brushing his stubble to rest on one cheek, gently guiding him to tilt his head back up so that if he opens his eyes, like he does now, he sees Barry staring at him with open concern. “Talk to me.”

He takes in a shaky breath and confesses, “It’s not the rain, Barry…it’s the storms. The lightning, the everything.”

Barry’s eyes widen as an almost instant understanding lights up his expression. But then it’s just as quickly taken over by confusion. “But I thought you were ok with it, cause it chose me.”

That startles a laugh, breathy and incredulous as it is, out of him. “You think that makes me ok with you _actually_ being struck by lightning? Ok with a nine month coma? Ok with the thought of that ever happening to you again?” As another roll of thunder sounds, he closes one hand around the wrist of the arm Barry’s still got raised to touch him, places his other on the younger man’s hip, tugs him a little closer.

Barry obliges, not without pointing out sensibly, “You know, impossible as I am, the odds are still pretty long for me getting hit by lightning twice.”

“You have a bad guy named Weather Wizard,” is Oliver’s rebuttal.

“You actually called him Weather Wizard,” is Barry’s awed and undeniably amused reply, looking like he might kiss Oliver just for that.

But there’s a _boom_ louder than the rest and the lights flicker just as the dark city skyline outside is illuminated by a stab of lightning, and suddenly Oliver is pulling Barry into his arms, wrapping him up perhaps tighter than he should, and this is _exactly_ why he never wanted him here for this because now he _knows_ and can _see_ him fall apart like the wreck of a man he still is—

Barry is rubbing hands up and down Oliver’s back, murmuring in his ear, “It’s ok, it’s alright. Just a storm. It’ll pass.”

“I am not scared,” he insists. “Not for me, anyway.”

“I don’t believe you,” Barry says simply, unyielding but not unkind. “You can tell me, Oliver.”

And he’s yet to figure out why he always just _does_. “My father’s yacht, it was sabotaged. There was a bomb, but…it was triggered when the _Gambit_ got tossed around in a storm.”

Now he’s being squeezed just as tight. “Oh God, Oliver! I didn’t even think—”

“It was almost nine years ago, why would you?” He dismisses quickly. “Why should anyone?”

Barry’s head’s been tucked under his chin, but he cranes his neck back to fix him with a solemn look. “Because it still affects you.”

“I thought it’d gotten better,” he feels like he has to explain. “I could sleep through them mostly, I didn’t feel…anxious. Then you got hit and that was a shock. Even that wasn’t really bad, though, at first. I’d just barely met you. But I think about what if it happened now and the thought of you just being _gone_ like that, for nine months, forever, like everyone on that boat it just—” Another clap of thunder interrupts him and he’s ducking his head into Barry’s shoulder now and wondering when in the hell did he become the one who rambled. “Please just laugh or something so I know you’re getting amusement out of this, at least.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you, Oliver,” Barry tells him, not pitying or hurt or annoyed. Just understanding, like so many times before. How does he get to have this after everything?

But then Barry is unwinding his arms from Oliver, reaching behind himself to break Oliver’s own vicelike grip. Before he can ask—or desperately reclaim his hold—there’s a blur and disorienting rush leaving him sitting on the couch. The curtains have all been drawn over the windows of the loft, a blanket’s been thrown over his lap and Barry is sharing, cuddled into his side.

He’s also holding up a number of DVD cases for Oliver’s selection, though he can’t really be bothered to halt in winding his arms back around the younger man as soon as he registers his new surroundings. “Your turn to pick. We can turn the volume up way high if you want, looks like you guys have surround sound.” They do. They rarely use it, but they do.

The lights flicker again, however, and he has to state, “I’m pretty sure we’re about to lose power.”

Barry pouts, but he is hardly ever easily deterred, and quickly enough has the DVDs stowed away. “Well fine,” he says, starts squirming a bit to get Oliver to loosen his embrace again which he’s incredibly reluctant to do. But he soon finds he likes the reason for it when Barry turns and swings a leg over both of his, settles himself comfortably straddling Oliver’s lap. His hands come to rest automatically on the younger man’s hips, thumbs rubbing small circles in the fabric of his shirt. The blanket slides forgotten to the floor. “We’ll just make our own noise. I’m pretty good at that.” It’s his lover who’s wiggling his eyebrows at him now, equal parts suggestive and comical.

Even over the roar and crash of the storm, Oliver laughs. “Yes, you are.” Looking at Barry grinning down at him with such open warmth and affection makes his own smile go soft. “And I- I’m glad you still came over.” Whether he’d wanted it at first or not, the shame is gone and all that’s left is an immense joy and relief that Barry knows, is here with him, is _safe_.

Barry loops his arms around Oliver’s neck. “I am, too. Cause I’m always going to be here, if you need somebody to talk to, or hold. Or make noise,” he adds, unrepentant.

Oliver huffs another laugh, then slips both hands underneath the other man’s shirt. Barry shivers and it has nothing to do with the pounding rain or raging storm outside. Pushing down on Barry with his hands while straining upward with his upper body allows him to capture the man’s lips in a kiss that is fueled by both his desperate fears that come out on nights like his, and his almost dizzying amount of appreciation of the one above him. Of course, when Barry’s mouth opens readily to his tongue with one of those deliciously loud moans and he’s pressing himself against Oliver searching for just as much contact, anxiety and gratitude go out the window. It’s now a kiss very much fueled by _want_.

He breaks if off after a few more moments and they’re both panting heavily, Barry’s darkened eyes and flushed cheeks he’s just able to make out in the dark—oh, the power _has_ gone. He only tugs the younger man closer— _here_ with _him_ and _safe_ —in response. “I think,” it’s almost a purr in Barry’s ear, “I’d actually prefer to make love.” Then lets his lips descend on the pale column of the man’s throat, licking at his Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down when he swallows.

Barry’s reply is a breathy, “Did I mention— _mm_ —that I’m also really good at— _ah_!—multitasking?”

“I can see that,” he says, then shifts to grip Barry’s backside while the other locks his leg’s around Oliver’s waist when he stands up, walking them to the bedroom without even looking as he’s far too busy working more of those sounds out of the younger man. Oliver’s pretty good at multitasking himself.

He has a feeling he’s found a reason to stop hating thunderstorms.

**Author's Note:**

> So the mood was kind of all over the place in this one. Sorry if that was weird. I'd love to hear any thoughts, and thanks so much for reading!


End file.
